Voodoo Moon

by Gorman, Ed

  "I kept pestering her, of course. We'd have these terrible arguments in my office. She'd always end up weeping and screaming at me to let her have the baby. My nurse would rush in and remind me that there were patients in the reception area hearing her scream. My whole life was coming apart.

  "And then she got in that car wreck.

  "By this time, her parents were very suspicious of me. She refused to talk about me to them. So when she died in the car crash—her car suddenly swerved into the path of a semi, whether intentionally or not we'll never know because the highway was very dark and icy—and when they did the autopsy and found out Ellie had been pregnant, all their suspicions were confirmed.

  "I tried to lie my way out of it, but the medical tests proved my paternity. My wife immediately went back to Connecticut where her people are. Very wealthy people, too. They found a house for her and the boys. I speak to the boys at Christmastime now. On the phone. Very antiseptic and formal.

  "My life was over. At least until I read this magazine article in Esquire about how, if you have the money, you can re-create yourself. A little bit of plastic surgery, a lot of forged documents, three or four forged recommendations, and you are a new person.

  "I applied for three or four positions. One institution was about to hire me, but somebody on the hospital staff got suspicious and decided to check out one of my reference letters. I immediately withdrew my application.

  "The third time, I got lucky. Here in Brenner. I was now Dr. Williams. Head of my own psychiatric hospital, an honor I'd never had before. And now, thanks to you, Mr. Payne, an honor I will have no longer."

  "Quite a story."

  "And all of it true."

  "Sadly."

  "Very sadly."

  "The coffee's good, anyway."

  We sat in his kitchen nook. The Mr. Coffee had done a decent job.

  "I was going to run away."

  "I know."

  "I have a friend in Mexico. He's on the run, too. Sort of the same thing except it involved money instead of sex."

  "Money?"

  "He got this elderly woman patient of his to sign over several very valuable pieces of property to him. Which he promptly sold. He's got several federal agencies looking for him."

  "You two just might give psychiatry a bad name."

  He smiled. "If only you knew what really went on, Mr. Payne."

  I said, "I'd consider going to the hospital and telling them the truth and seeing what happens."

  "You mean they might keep me on?"

  I shrugged. "Beats running and hiding the rest of your life." He sipped some coffee. "I imagine you're disappointed."

  "About you not being Renard?"

  "Yes."

  I shrugged. "Things happen that way sometimes."

  "He's alive."

  I had been stirring sugar into my coffee. I looked up. "You really believe that?"

  "Absolutely. He's been taunting me for over a year."

  "Taunting you how?"

  "Phone messages. He tells me to go back through his records and look for little details he discussed with his shrink. We inherited whatever records survived the asylum fire, since some of the staff doctors are now employed with us. Whoever he is knows things only Renard could know. Names and dates."

  "Why didn't you go to the police?"

  "Put yourself in my place, Mr. Payne. You don't go to the police unless it's absolutely necessary. Absolutely. And since Renard—or whoever he was—wasn't hurting anybody that I knew of, I decided to overlook it. I didn't want to give the police any excuse to start nosing around in my life."

  "I guess that makes sense." I gulped the last of my coffee. "I'll think about what you said."

  "I won't let the hospital know what I found out for twenty-four hours. Give you time to think it over."

  "I appreciate that."

  I still didn't like him. But at least I didn't hate him anymore.

  The suit was Armani, the woman was bulletproof Professional.

  "Hello," she said, offering a slender but strong hand, "I'm Courtney. Tandy has told me so much about you."

  "She's inside."

  "Ummm. Being interviewed. NBC."

  "And, Courtney, you're with?"

  "Pyramid. Pyramid Media."

  "Ah."

  "We produce Tandy's show."

  "Ah."

  "Since Laura is dead, the company told me to hustle my buns out here and cover for her."

  Given her nice, humorless face, her sensational and probably real breasts, and her excellent perfect legs, I had no doubt her buns were also gapeworthy. I guess it was her eyes that spoiled the effect of the other body parts. Nobody had any right to look this happy in the face of Laura's death. But then, without Laura's demise, we wouldn't have NBC in Tandy's room, would we?

  I'd gone up to my room. All her stuff was gone. The gentleman at the front desk told me that she'd been assigned a new room. Which was where I stood now. Facing the guard Pyramid had dispatched.

  "Any idea how long you think she'll be?"

  "I'm not sure, Robert. If I may call you that. But I'll be sure to have her call you if she gets the chance."

  If.

  Given that Tandy's fate was clearly in Courtney's hands, I doubted I'd be seeing her tonight.

  "Tell her I need to talk about the drawing."

  "The drawing," she repeated. "Got it. Now I'd better get back inside."

  Oh, yeah, she would be sending Tandy right out.

  I drove over to Wendy's and got a salad in the drive-through. I stopped at a convenience store for a quart of Hamms. I drove slowly back to the motel. It was kind of a make-out night. All the hot small-town cars up, their radios illegally loud. I saw a college-age girl in an old battered Plymouth. She had a University of Iowa parking sticker on her windshield. She wasn't really what you'd call a babe—actually, I've always been attracted to the quiet, pretty, bookish types instead of the babes—but I made up a little history of her. Good-looking, bright girl from poor family has to work so hard she never has time for a social life. And then she meets the famed Right Guy, not unlike me, who eloquently and persuasively convinces her with his silver tongue, not unlike mine, that she is truly a beauty and needs only self-esteem to realize all the good and great things waiting for her. She looked over at me for a moment and I was tempted to roll down my window and tell her all the things in my head. But I figured with my luck, I'd get arrested and she'd run off with the bail bond guy or something.

  There was a good Robert Mitchum picture, Track of the Cat, on TNT. I watched the whole thing. It was ten o'clock. Two hours since being deflected by the unctuous Courtney.

  I decided it was time to try the Gileses. See if they were asleep yet.

  I dug out the phone book and called.

  Mr. Giles answered on the first ring.

  I hung up.

  I tried Tandy's room. Busy. Tried the operator. She got a busy, too. Should she report it? No, thanks. Courtney had no doubt taken the phone off the hook.

  Restless. Paced. Tried Tandy again. Busy.

  Then somehow it miraculously became ten-thirty. Tried the Gileses' again. Mr. Giles barked "Who is it?" after the first ring.

  I sat down and finished off the beer. And fell asleep. Tension was gone; exhaustion overcame me. I hadn't slept well in a couple of nights. Now I was drained.

  The Exercise-in-a-Spray infomercial was on. That's right. No dieting. No exercising. Just spray this on your body and you magically begin to lose weight and tone up. Gee, and to think there were probably cynics who thought that the stuff didn't work.

  I went to the bathroom and came out and tried Tandy. She surprised me by answering. "Wow. What a night, Robert. NBC."

  "How's the drawing going?"

  "Oh, that. I really haven't had time to get back to it yet."

  "Oh."

  Pause. "I'll try, though. I'm too wired to sleep, anyway. And I do keep getting these flashes. Just like the old days, Robert. Laura always sai
d it would come back to me." Hesitation. "Every time I think of her, I feel like shit. I turned out to be just like her. I like all this celebrity stuff. And I was always making fun of her for it." Teary-voiced. "I loved her so much, Robert. Our relationship got so complicated by the end, I know. But the bottom line is that I loved her so much." Another hesitation. "I really will work on the drawing, Robert. Maybe something'll come to me in the middle of the night. You know, the way it used to."

  "If you get anything—"

  "I'll call you right away. Thanks for being such a sweetie."

  We hung up.

  I went in the bathroom and changed into dark clothes.

  Moonlight cast long, gothic shadows over the Giles house. Every window was black with night. Inky clouds partially obscured the moon. Soon enough, it would be raining.

  I'd parked half a block away and walked up the alley. When I reached the back of the house, I charted my course.

  Back porch roof to a small, black, ornamental wrought-iron balcony built just under the attic window. Apparently, the builder had hoped to reenact Romeo and Juliet here someday. And then I'd get inside the attic. If Claire didn't scream, I'd be all right.

  It was fairly easy work and I did it almost soundlessly. My palms got scraped up on the rope I lassoed the balcony with, but other than that there was no real difficulty. When I reached the balcony, I pulled myself up and stepped inside the wrought-iron enclosure. And felt the balcony start to collapse all around me. It hadn't been built to hold a 162-pound man. I moved carefully and quickly.

  I pulled the rope up from below. A dangling rope was a sure giveaway.

  I crouched and peered into the window. Saw nothing. Too dark. As I was waiting for my eyes to adjust to this particular darkness, the thunder started.

  It was summer thunder, deep and vast, racing all the way down the sky to set objects and souls trembling. There was enough caveman DNA in me to recognize the thunder's booming warning of cosmic malice. This was when you went to the back of the cave and clutched your family to you and pretended that you were not afraid at all. But your wife knew and you knew she knew. You just hoped that the little ones didn't know. It was important that the chief hunter of the family be, in their eyes, anyway, fearless.

  The rain came not long after.

  I hunched beneath the overhang of roof as well as I could. But it wasn't much help. I still couldn't see much.

  The layout started to take shape. Large, partially finished attic that was mostly a bedroom. I guess I'd been expecting one of those hellholes you hear about where children are held captive. The smells and the blood and the weapons of torture.

  No such evidence here.

  I could see a bed, bureau, small TV, toilet, sink, older-model refrigerator.

  Not just a bedroom, after all. A tiny apartment.

  Then I saw, in the center of the floor, the metal chain bolted to the floor. I followed the length of chain until it disappeared somewhere in the covers of the bed.

  I thought of the chain-dragging noise I'd heard from the other side of the door.

  I tried the windows. Locked tight. There would doubtless be a hook on the other side. And I doubtless wouldn't be able to lift it.

  The rain increased. Hard. Cold.

  And the ornamental balcony began to shift beneath my feet.

  I started to knock—hoping I could rouse Claire from her bed and her no doubt drugged sleep—when the spotlight caught me.

  I turned and saw, through the silver rain slanting cold in the yellow beam of the spotlight, the unmistakable shape and colors of a police car.

  "You going to tell me what you were doing up there?"

  "I'd rather tell Chief Charles."

  "Well, I'd rather be home in bed with my wife. But that doesn't mean jack shit, does it, Mr. Payne?"

  Fuller was in fine form. Ever since meeting in the interrogation room, he'd let it be known, none too subtly, that he didn't care for me, Tandy, or out-of-towners in general.

  He was finally getting a chance to express himself.

  "You going to attack her?"

  "Who?"

  "Claire. The woman who lives in the attic."

  "Yeah. That's just what I was going to do. Rape her."

  "It happens."

  "Well, it doesn't happen when I'm around. I just wanted to talk to her."

  "You couldn't go in the front door?"

  "I tried that. Her folks wouldn't let me see her."

  "Then that should've been that. You got your answer and the answer was no."

  "Would you please call Chief Charles?"

  "You know what time it is?"

  "I'll take the blame. Just please call her."

  "I'm afraid not. I'm going to take you to the shop."

  "The shop?"

  "That's what we call the station."

  "Then I'll call the chief."

  "Who saw me, anyway?"

  "A good citizen whose headlights caught you about halfway up the back wall when you were climbing."

  "I thought you worked days."

  "I do. But Sullivan has the flu."

  "Then at least call Tandy for me. Tell her where I am."

  He smiled nastily at me. "You'd think a psychic could figure that out for herself."

  He went through the whole thing. Booking. Fingerprinting. Even a nice new photograph.

  He was having himself a damned good time.

  "Not often a lowlife local lawman like myself gets the chance to book an FBI man like yourself."

  "I quit the bureau years ago."

  He looked up at me from the form he'd been filling out. "Maybe you left the bureau, but the bureau didn't leave you, Payne. You've still got the attitude."

  "The bureau do something to you, did they, Fuller?"

  "Yeah, me and every other hardworking pissant local lawman. They come in here and take over and push us around and never tell us what's going on. And if there's any credit, they take it all for themselves."

  "How come Chief Charles doesn't seem to feel that way?"

  "Because she's got the paper."

  "The paper?"

  "The degree."

  "I see."

  "Took all the courses. Kissed all the city council asses. What she wants to be someday is mayor. And so she has to play the game. FBI comes into a town like ours, all the people get all hot and fluttery. Like a teenager in heat. Oh, the FBI is so wonderful. Oh, the FBI is so professional. Like we're dog shit or something. Well, let's see the fucking FBI pull their fucking car out of a ditch in the middle of a blizzard sometime."

  An angry man.

  We were in Susan Charles's office. He sat at her desk. This was where he obviously hoped to be permanently someday.

  He started to say something. A young man in a 1958 crew cut was pushing a wide broom down the corridor. He paused in the doorway.

  "You want me to skip the chief's office tonight? This is when I usually do it."

  "Just come back when we're done talking."

  "Fine. I'll just take my break now."

  When the young man was gone, Fuller said, "His break. Sonofabitch takes ten breaks a night."

  "You could always fire him."

  "The mayor's kid? You kidding? He flunked out of Iowa last term when we were looking for a night janitor. Mayor figured this would teach his kid a little humility. Cleaning toilets and shit like that."

  I was tired of small talk.

  "You call Tandy?"

  "Yeah. She wasn't there."

  "What the hell you talking about, she wasn't there?"

  "Just what I said, asshole. She wasn't there."

  "You call the desk?"

  He sighed. "I figured you'd piss and moan about it, so I tried it direct one time and got no answer, and then I tried the front desk and they tried and didn't get no answer. That good enough for you, Payne?"

  "Where the hell would she be?"

  I got a terrible feeling about her not being there. This time of night. A slashing rain. Her
exhausted from her day. Why would she be gone now?

  He stood up. "Couple things I need to do. I'll be back. You want coffee?"

  "I'd appreciate it."

  "You got thirty-five cents?"

  "This isn't on the house, huh?"

  "You pay for your coffee same as I do. That's what happens when you're a real lawman, Payne. You pay your own way."

  "You ever hear of Prozac?"

  "You ever hear of gettin' a nightstick shoved up your ass?"

  He went away.

  I sat and listened to the rain and looked around the office again. He hadn't been kidding about Susan's public success. She had all the right awards and citations you need to prosper in a small town. Kiwanis. Rotary. The hospital. With her brains, style, and poise, seemed she could be mayor anytime she wanted.

  I got up and walked over for a closer look.

  I studied the family photos on top of the small bookcase. Young Susan Charles at various ages. The very youngest photo was so pretty, she could have been a face on baby food or baby soap. Curly dark hair, stunning green eyes, and already a kind of wry smile, as if she knew that her beauty would someday be defaced. The wryness being her way of dealing with it.

  The cheerleading photo, despite the out-of-date hairdo, was still sexy. Definitely a trophy girl. The campus stars would have all vied for her. And she no doubt would have let them.

  A high school graduation photo; a New York City vacation photo; a swimsuit photo in which she wore a goofy hat and looked like she was giggling.

  And then no more.

  No photos of her with her scar.

  "Those were the good days," she said from behind me.

  Yellow rain slicker, red blouse, jeans, wading boots, sprightly yellow rain slicker hat. Cute cute cute.

  "BS," she said.

  "BS?"

  "Before Scar."

  I smiled. "Sounds about right."

  She sat down behind her desk. "You're in trouble, Robert."

  "I know."

  "Fuller is enjoying himself. It's sort of like giving a Pit Bull a side of beef."

  I sat down, too.

  "That's an apt description, Chief."

  She leaned forward. "Why the hell were you trying to get into that attic?"